


You Wanted Optimism, Hotch?

by OrUpToTheThrone



Series: Agent "Colleague" [1]
Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Aaron Hotchner Needs a Hug, Angst, BAMF Women, Behavioral Analysis Unit (Criminal Minds), Blood, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Childhood Trauma, Crime Fighting, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gun Violence, Hostage Situations, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Insecure Aaron Hotchner, Minor Character Death, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV Original Female Character, Pain, Past Violence, Protective Aaron Hotchner, Recovery, Sarcasm, Strong Female Characters, This Is Me Deflecting, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 20:22:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29374539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrUpToTheThrone/pseuds/OrUpToTheThrone
Summary: Language, violence, and getting torn apart in a profile from Hotch. What more could anyone want?Pentagon special agent Levine has been bleeding out for over a day. She doesn't have much time left before she becomes one of a long trail of victims, but she gets a surprising cell, or basement, mate. This meeting is going to end with something she wasn't expecting.Fair warning: I love suffering.Sequel in the works
Relationships: Aaron Hotchner/Original Female Character(s), Aaron Hotchner/Reader
Series: Agent "Colleague" [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2169402
Comments: 12
Kudos: 50





	1. Chapter 1

The unexpectedly hot basement made the bodies smell worse than I’d have liked, and I would have puked, but no matter how wretched it was when the southern March heat vaporized decay into the air, my stomach had emptied a long time ago. Still, I dry-heaved when I woke, clawing my way off a newer pile of flesh. It did nothing but aggravate the bullet wound in my shoulder.

“ _Shit,_ ” I groaned as quietly as I could, shifting slightly to grab at the wound. I let myself hold my shoulder for a bit to replicate a sense of comfort before dropping my left arm and rolling back over the corpse I’d been deposited on.

_Do they think I’m dead?_

The thought didn’t make it to my tongue, instead falling into the static that seemed to emit from behind my eyes. Bravely, I glanced at the camera lodged in the cement walls of the cracking foundation; it didn’t appear to be on, yet I knew it wouldn’t be wise to move so far as to alert the men upstairs that I was mobile. It wouldn’t be a good idea to move with my injury anyways.

It was at least a day old, the damned bullet hole, and had been aching and bleeding all over as I lay on my side completely unprevented in its traveling rivulets but for some crusting around the blood pool edges. It was gross. Despite all the blood, I knew that I’d be alright without treatment for another half-day at least, as long as no complications arose. I was strong, thirty, and fit. It also wasn’t the first time I’d been shot.

Observation as a single alternative to wasting away took priority in my mind. 

_Rot. Humidity..._

The walls would reek for years, even if they could find a way to remove the stains.

_...Well-lit..._

For victim observation, certainly. The men upstairs profiled as sadists that enjoyed monitoring the final death throes of the women they’d captured.

_...Does that mean that they’re watching?_

_..._

_...Fluid._

A pool of biologically menacing liquid from the rotting flesh smothered the floor, my own blood dripping into it seamlessly. I tried to ignore the inevitable disgust this brought me. I couldn’t afford to lose any more fluid from puking, and it was hard enough to ignore the smell itself. Instead, I opted to inspect the walls, looking for signs of a _lack_ of human remains. The walls led to the stairs; relatively cleanly in comparison to the basement despite the bloodstains on the steps; they, too, were made of cracking concrete. I wondered if the men upstairs recognized the hazard.

_They probably don't care. That, or they’re too stupid to recognize the risk._

I didn’t have many options in this state. I could fight- that was for sure- but considering the heavily armed trio upstairs, I reasoned that getting out sooner wouldn’t be worth the suicide risk. The sagacious choice would be to wait out whatever was going on. I turned away from the camera and the stairs, back to the pile of flesh against the wall. If I did die, I didn’t want them to enjoy it.

The fuzz behind my eyes made it hard to think, and soon I started to distance myself from the situation, sinking into the ache of the bullet embedded in my shoulder blade instead. I didn’t know the exact hour of the day, and it irritated me to not be able to anticipate my own chances. The constant presence of moist tissues and sinews under me became normality as my body grew accustomed to its enclosure.

I nearly drifted off. The blood loss made my eyes unfocus, rendering them unreliable until something shook me out of my thoughts. 

Abruptly, a deafening sound followed by uproarious laughter startled me, and I realized that a gun had been fired upstairs. The slam of the basement door and the heavy sound of a body falling down the concrete steps accompanied by low grunts and a hiss of breath to my right sharpened my eyes again and I stiffened, unbreathing, waiting for movement behind me. The door atop the stairs slammed again, a thin metallic sound ringing through the basement. I purposely ignored the sound the body made when it hit the pooled fluids on the cement floor. Loud, abrasive laughter filtered down from the basement ceiling through the cracked concrete .

_The body is dense, male. Not short._

Suddenly, the form behind me shifted, and I made the split decision to move.

I flipped over, eyes blurred, seeing a large dark form struggling to stand, backlit by the ceiling and much too close for comfort. I didn’t have time to identify it as I lunged, grabbing his midsection and bringing him to the ground with me. It took a few seconds to realize that I had an injured man in front of me that didn’t resemble any of the men from upstairs. He had stiff, short black hair, a long face, and dark eyes adorned by dark bags. His clothes bore no resemblance to the crudely designed flannel of the men upstairs. No—they were tailored, in business blue.

“Who’re you?” My voice was embarrassingly croaky, but I was excused in that I hadn’t used it in a while.

“SSA Aaron Hotchner,” the voice seemed startled that I had responded in the fashion that I had.

“A... agent? Are you an agent?”

“Yes, I’m with the FBI, Behavioral Analysis Unit. Who are you?” The man’s voice was accusatory, but soft. I immediately rolled off of him and collided with the floor.

“Reagan, Reagan Levine. Pentagon. I’d shake your hand, but...” I half-shrugged.

“Levine?” Hotchner’s brows furrowed. “Undercover as Sofia Alessi?”

“Yeah. Were you looking for me?” I was surprised that he’d made the connection so fast, given that he was FBI and didn’t work in association with my unit.

“We thought you were dead.”

Ah. So I’d been labeled another victim.

“I’m too good for that, agent,” I smiled sardonically at him. “Who were you looking for, then? Jessica Wagner? She’s the most recent victim.”

“Is she alive?” 

“I’m sorry, agent. She’s over there.” I pointed to the pile of decay. Agent Hotchner started to move again, gingerly, even groaning a bit as he sat up and leveled with my line of sight. Then, I saw it, red, seeping through the business blue down his left lapel; too close to his vital organs for comfort.

“You’re shot.” A burst of adrenaline hit me, the prospect of an agent needing assistance lighting a fire under me.

“I’m fine.”

“Absolutely not.” I staggered up and over to him. He winced as I approached, and I knew that I probably smelled just as bad as the flesh I’d been dropped on, but I approached him anyway.

“Listen. You need to get up against the wall, alright? You’re lucky you’ve been shot above your heart. You might be able to stay responsive for longer if you don’t bleed out.” I grabbed under his right arm with my good arm as gently as I could, yanking him towards the wall.

“You-you’ve been shot, Levine,” he defended as I dragged his body over to the concrete wall unceremoniously. 

“Outstanding profile, agent, but I’ve been down here longer and have less of a chance. Given that I’m still functional and am adapting to the pain, I think your newer and unassessed bullethole is more concerning. It’s basic triaging.”

“That is not valid,” Agent Hotchner starkly stated, maintaining an even tone, though visibly weakening by the second.

“Doesn’t matter, agent. You aren’t exactly the prime example of mobility at the moment, and that puts me in charge.”

“Your clearance outranks me, ma’m.” Hotchner’s voice was starting to grow fainter. I scrambled to prop his hulking body up against the wall.

“Even better. Station your ass against the wall, agent. We’re going to be here for a while.” I watched as Hotchner feebly dragged his back up the wall, situating his chest up as high as he could before he started to wilt.

“You know, your handler gave me a hard time with gathering information for this case,” his eyes drooped. 

“I bet. Brooke runs a tight ship, and she’s not very trusting. Don’t feel too bad, she doesn’t trust me with anything, either,” I felt my brief rush of adrenaline dissipate as I dropped back to the floor, the smack of the rancid remains making Hotchner flinch. 

“How much are you bleeding? The only thing in here to help dam the flow is going to be clothes from the other victims,” I begrudgingly stated, collapsing into the spot I’d been dropped in.

“...Levine?” Agent Hotchner asked softly, eyeing me from across the muck. I could smell the reek of concern off of him before I turned away.

“I’m fine. I don’t know if they think I’m dead or not, but it’s better if they think I am.” I couldn’t tell him that I wasn’t capable of sitting up anymore. “They’ve got a camera, but I don’t think it has sound. I tested a few phrases that were profiled to gain a reaction from them.”

“Camera?” Agent Hotchner sounded funny, so I turned back towards him. 

“What?”

“Did they not come down to watch Jessica die?”

“No, they watched it. What’s wrong?”

“We profiled this incorrectly,” Hotchner muttered.

“You assumed that they like to feel the life slipping from their victims?”

“... Yes,” the agent’s eyes pierced through me.

I shook my head. “They’re cowards, too scared to take a life in person. They do it painfully and slowly from afar by shooting the victims and dumping them here, then watching their deaths from the camera. It depersonalizes it and displaces responsibility.”

“They’re not psychopaths, are they.” Hotch looked away, darkly.

“No,” I confirmed. “Just very, very sadistic.”

“Son of a bitch.” The other agent leaned his head back, closing his eyes.

It was quiet for a few moments, but I’d appreciated the distraction of the previous conversation, so I continued it.

“How’d they catch you?” 

“We profiled two unsubs.” Hotchner didn’t open his eyes.

“And you found out the hard way that there were three?”

“Yes.” 

“Where’d your gun and vest go? Where’s your team?” It wasn’t an accusation, I simply needed the information to run the odds in my head.

“Outside. We assumed this was a hostage situation because they claimed to have Jessica alive, so I came in to negotiate. Negotiations involved removing my guns and vest.”

“Unfortunate, but at least the rest of your team is outside. You’ll make it out.”

“And you won’t?” Hotchner opened his eyes, staring me down.

“It’s up in the air at the moment.” I didn’t elaborate, choosing to roll into the human remains again rather than face him. 

“We’ll both make it out,” the other agent assured, but I shook my head.

“I’ve been bleeding out for over a day. I’m not too torn up about dying, should it happen. Don’t worry about me, agent, worry about yourself bleeding out.”

It was silent for at least a minute before Agent Hotchner realized that conversation was better than focusing on the sights and smells of the basement.

“How did you get caught? Brooke told me you’re one of her best.”

I rolled over to face Hotchner. “That’s nice of her, though I’m not sure if it’s honest. Did she tell you about my role in our unit?”

“No, only that you perform undercover.”

“Hmmm…” I looked up at the ceiling, wondering if I should tell Hotchner.

“You’re debating whether to tell me. Do I not have clearance?”

“I don’t really care if you have clearance, to be honest. I don’t think you’d tell, would you?” I looked back at the man, curious.

“Evading questions.” Agent Hotchner distracted himself by smiling a little. I glanced back.

“My job is to involve myself in high-risk national threat cases and get captured. Purposefully.” I watched him carefully for his response.

“That is… intense.” Hotchner couldn’t hide his surprise before I noticed.

“The lengths at which I perform my job are also not entirely legal, which is why I’m undercover, agent.”

“How were you selected for this program?”

“An odd question.”

“Which you’re avoiding.”

I snorted, but stopped to think, wondering whether or not to disclose more information that was a lot more sensitive than the information already on the table.

“I had to display certain... traits.”

“These traits did not align with other roles in the Pentagon?”

“Damn, Hotchner, but no. In truth, the traits necessary for this job would make me a possible liability in other roles, like a BAU specialist.”

“So psychological traits?”

“Perhaps.” 

“Why are you answering my questions?”

“Anything to keep you from passing out from blood loss or pain.” I tapped my nails on the cement floor happily, ignoring the mush underneath them.

Agent Hotchner didn’t respond for a few seconds.

“Manipulative.” 

“Perhaps.” I grinned at him.

“Was anything you said true?”

“Maybe.”

Hotchner took another moment, I assumed for observation. It seemed he had come to a conclusion when he spoke again.

“The traits are recklessness and a lack of care for your personal well-being, as well as aggressiveness.”

I stared at Hotchner, stone-faced, not knowing how to react. Eventually, I turned away, facing the ceiling again as I shrugged with one arm.

“You’re not right, but you’re not wrong.”

“How am I wrong?”

“You missed something important.” I looked at him and chuckled, even though it hurt. “Your observations are more shallow than implicative and don’t describe the traits that came up in my psych eval. That being said, your statements themselves weren’t wrong,” I admitted. “I’ll give you a hint. What can cause the traits you mentioned, and what else can that cause lead to? Aside from that, there’s one more ‘trait’ that isn’t related.”

“That’s broad.”

“That’s a fair hint, agent.” I raised an eyebrow at him, self-conscious of how insane I must have looked.

“Alright. Give me a minute.”

I politely gave him a minute, then two, not speaking and distracting myself with thinking about seeing snow again instead. Rotting corpses were going to ruin humidity in the South for me.

“Earlier, you were tapping your fingers, even though you don’t have energy to spare and are on the verge of succumbing to your injuries—you have an attention deficit disorder.” 

“A stretch, but not wrong.”

“How is that a stretch?”

“Just keep going, there’s more.”

“ _How is that a stretch?_ ”

“Agent,” I stopped him humorously. “You only profiled that I was nervous. There are many causes for fidgeting, and ADD or ADHD are just two of many.”

“Sustained,” Hotchner smiled, “but you added ADHD to your phrasing, so I can infer that I was right and that you have mild ADHD?”

“... Alright, that’s admissible,” I gave in, and the other agent smiled. 

“So, ADHD, aggressiveness, and lack of self awareness-”

“-I did NOT confirm a lack of self awareness, nor is that true,” I glared at Hotchner.

“Right. Suicidal tendencies, am I correct?”

“That’s not what I would call it.”

“But I’m not wrong?”

“.........Correct,” I grunted, looking away again. “This is getting awfully personal, agent.”

“Perhaps. But you want it personal, because you believe that you likely won’t make it out of here alive. You’re keeping conversation because you don’t usually get to talk about yourself like this. You want me to ask questions about you because you yourself don’t enjoy initiating conversation; and not only that, but you don’t often hold the interest of others, which is why it’s so important to you to disclose personal information about yourself with a stranger before you die.”

“Ouch.” I stared at Agent Hotchner, mouth agape.

“I’m not done yet. These traits show a lack of people close to you, and though this may be attributed to aggressiveness, your anger does not come from rage, but from sadness. You antagonize yourself to people who wrong you because you prefer the feeling of rage to misery, and this gives you the ability to warp emotions in a “high-risk” situation to your benefit. This, added to your lack of self-respect, lets you manipulate yourself to adapt to anything an unsub might put you through—even death—without batting an eye.”

“What the fuck,” I glared at him again.

“Not done, Levine. I haven’t gotten to the cause, right?” 

“Make it as fast and painless as possible, asshole,” I muttered.

“I’ll try, but your story isn’t a happy one, is it? You may have been raised in a home with both parents, but that made things harder for you, didn’t it? They didn’t treat you like they should’ve.” 

“That’s enough, agent.”

“You have siblings. They don’t like you very much, and neither do your parents, because no one appears to like you, and your solitary lifestyle of aggression doesn’t help.”

“Agent-”

“-You were the oldest child, and therefore was considered responsible for your siblings as well as yourself. Did you get blamed for a lot of things you weren’t responsible for?”

“Ho-”

“-You were abused, mentally and occasionally physically, then gaslighted heavily as a pre-teen and teenager resulting in your own incapability to believe what happens to you, which in a twisted way, helps you get through missions and tasks of the highest risk. It helps you _let yourself_ get harmed—let yourself get killed—because you can always tell yourself that you’re imagining things and that none of this is real.” Agent Hotchner ended by gesturing vaguely with the hand not connected to an injured shoulder.

“Am I a _fucking unsub,_ or are you just going to tear me apart before I die?” I stared, aghast, at him, ignoring the loss of feeling in my legs.

“Wanting to feel relevant isn’t the only reason why you’ve let me go on this tirade. You’ve let me get this far because it’s not only distracting yourself, but it’s distracting me, too, and keeping me focused enough to not lose consciousness.”

I looked away at that. I’d hoped he hadn’t noticed that.

“Color me impressed, agent,” I murmured as I looked up again before rolling away and back into my own dump site.

“...Levine?”

I frowned into myself as I lay in a near-fetal position.

“What,” I growled back, agitated.

“Are you angry now?”

I rolled back over to face him.

“Are you worried about me being _angry_ with you when I’m dying?”

“It wouldn’t be right to die angry.”

“It wouldn't be right to die from my country taking advantage of my trauma, yet here we are.” I glared at him from my mound of flesh, propping myself up on my elbows.

The conversation couldn’t get any further, because at that moment, my brain calibrated to the situation and I felt the pain in my shoulder magnify.

“ _FUCK!_ ” I couldn’t stop the shout and groan as I fell off of my elbow perch and back into the muck. Unrestrained agony slowly filtered from my chest to the rest of my body, and the lights in the room became too bright, swinging their way in and out of my vision.

“LEVINE!” Agent Hotchner called, starting to move, but I shook my head at him from my position on the floor.

“Levine, I need you to look at me,” Hotchner leaned from his wall towards me. 

“Don’t wanna,” I spat out angrily, my voice afflicted with pain.

“ _LOOK AT ME._ ” 

The sudden command surprised me, and I flinched, looking at Hotchner from the floor.

“Thank you. Where did you get shot?”

“Shoulder,” I mumbled, starting to dissociate to compensate for the pain.

“How bad is it?”

“Dumbass missed anything _vital,_ far as I can tell.” I looked down at myself, even though my vision faded. The feeling in my body was beginning to fade as well.

“That’s good. That’s good,” Hotchner quietly told himself, looking away. “Is it bleeding a lot?” Now he wouldn’t look at me.

“Not any more than it was earlier. Just gives me a few less hours to live, is all,” I pondered, looking up at the ceiling.

Hotchner was silent for a little. I wondered if he’d passed out or fallen asleep until he spoke again.

“Please be a little more optimistic.” His voice was soft as he leaned his head against the wall.

“Where’s optimism going to get me when I’m dead?”

“Don’t say that,” he glared at me.

“I don’t see why not, unless it bothers you. It’s not going to make my death any worse.”

Hotchner went quiet again, then looked down at his hands, sitting uselessly in his lap.

“...It does.” It came out barely above a whisper, and it made me jerk my head in his direction, confused.

“It bothers you?” My exclamation contrasted sharply with his smooth, muted tone.

“Yes, it does.” Now, he sounded defensive.

“Why?” I tried to force my voice to be gentler like his, but it was hard with the pain in my shoulder. 

“Death may be easy for you, but it’s a much harder experience for the people around you,” Hotchner sheepishly muttered, gazing into the distance.

“You lost someone?”

“...Yes,” he warily looked at me, like I might jump him from my feeble position in the rotting flesh.

I took a moment for myself. I could pull the move he’d pulled earlier and profiled the fuck out of him, but as much joy as that would bring me in my last moments, I realized that this might not be the time or place. As Hotchner had so sagely told me, the misery of the living that have dealt with the death of others outweighed the uncomfortable experience of dying. My short-term discomfort wasn’t more important than him experiencing my death negatively. For someone who knew so much about me, I didn’t want him thinking ill of me when I died in front of him.

“Were you married?” I watched his hands, happy that I’d managed to keep my voice under control and force it to be lighter.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Hotchner continued looking at his hands. “I’ve come to terms.”

“She didn’t go easily, did she?”

Hotchner’s eyes flicked over to me, and I could feel that he was incensed for a moment, but then he abruptly looked away, despondency visible throughout his features.

“No. She didn’t.” His voice was solemn as I watched his eyes flicker through the room, trying to find something to look at that wasn’t me or a body. When he couldn’t find anything, he reluctantly looked back at me. “She was _scared,_ ” he said, eyebrows raising and voice cracking a bit. I could see him reliving her death.

“You thought you were going to grow old together. Die peacefully together. You didn’t think this would ever happen.”

“Yes, but...” he trailed off.

“...But?” I gently prodded.

“I thought it would be me. If one of us was to go like that, it was going to be me. It _should’ve been me._ ” Hotchner’s voice broke. I caught a tear sliding down his long face, illuminated against his dark expression. We both settled into that moment, lying there or sitting there as we shared the emotion of grief, letting each other wallow in our own misery.

“I won’t be scared.” 

Hotchner looked up at my words.

“It was supposed to be me, and I’ve accepted that,” I continued, “I’ve been more than reckless before. I’ve been shot more times in my life than I could count. I’ve done things that I shouldn't have, and I’ve lived a dangerous life. I was shot a day before Jessica, but she’s the one dead.” I didn’t feel very honored to be the one still alive.

“Jessica?” Hotch looked at me.

“Yeah. Got shot somewhere I couldn’t help her, even though I was down here longer. But that’s not the point.” I couldn’t return his gaze. There was a kind of guilt that I’d been reliving concerning Jessica for the last day and a half, and it started seeping out of me again, melding with my blood. “Jessica didn’t live a dangerous life. It should’ve been me before Jessica got the chance. But you? It wasn’t supposed to be you. It might not have been supposed to be your wife, either, but it wasn’t supposed to be you.”

Hotchner didn’t respond, so I went on.

“In my other cases? It should’ve been me. It’s my job for it to be me before it happens to anyone else, but I can’t help but think about what could’ve happened if I’d been faster—if I’d let myself get caught before one more girl. But,” I looked Hotchner in the eye, “you can’t afford to think like that. Agent, you’ve likely helped more people than I could ever imagine. Do you think about all the people you don’t make it to in time? Do you think that it shouldn’t have been them?”

“No.”

“Then you can’t think like that about your wife. Regardless of the circumstances.”

Hotchner rolled his head away from me, staring off again.

“You know what?” I scooted closer to him. “Let’s make a deal. I act like I’ll make it out of here alive, I’ll be more optimistic, and you tell me that you understand that your wife’s death wasn’t your fault.”

“It wa-”

“-SHUT it, agent. Just shut up. Your wife’s death was not your fault,” I glowered at him. “Say it with me; _my wife’s death_ \- come on, agent. That’s an order. Say it.”

“...My wife’s death was not my fault,” he reluctantly admitted.

“There. Great. Now it’s my turn; I’m going to make it out here alive.” I almost believed it when I heard the conviction in my own voice. When Hotchner heard it, a smile ghosted his face, and he looked at me.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” I turned away to take in the moment, smiling. I felt accomplished that I’d gotten Hotchner to say what he did. 

“Hotch,” the other agent suddenly said. 

“What?”

“Call me Hotch.”

“Okay. Hotch.” I’ll admit, it was a lot easier and more fun to say than ‘Hotchner’. “Call me Reagan.”

“Reagan.” Hotch nodded. 

“Great.” Then, I remembered. “How are you feeling? Is your shoulder bleeding a lot?”

“It’s about what you’d expect.”

“Vague, but I’ll take it,” I muttered. “Just let me know if you’re going to pass out so I know to make sure you don’t die.”

“Okay.” 

I couldn’t think of anything to say after that. It sounded like Hotch couldn’t, either, because the bright room plunged into a lengthy silence. I begrudgingly decided to study a tooth on the floor. Once in a while, I’d look up at Hotch to make sure he was still awake. It seemed he was doing the same, because a few times, I caught him looking at me. It was unbelievably awkward.

“I’m guessing you’ve already run escape statistics and estimated that it wasn’t possible?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t say that it’s not possible, but it would decrease our chances of survival dramatically, especially since it would be three on one-well, three on two, now. I think that getting up those-” I gestured to the stairs, “-would be hard enough, but the two of us evading or taking on three guys? Very unlikely. We’re more likely to just lose more blood and wear ourselves out trying to find a solution.”

“So, we wait.”

“Yes. Hopefully, your team figures out what to do sooner rather than later.”

I could tell that those words gave Hotch hope, which made me smile. “You trust them a lot.”

“Yes. I couldn't hope for better agents.” Hotch’s face softened as he thought about them.

“Listen. When someone comes down, I’m going to pretend to be dead, okay? Our chances will be better if they think I am.” I rolled into a more relaxed position that I could stay in for longer periods of time.

“Alright.”

“Should I pretend to die for the camera? Have a seizure? That could be fun,” I tried, but Hotch just looked at me blankly from his spot against the wall. I had the feeling that we didn’t share the same sense of humor.

“How old are you?” Hotch questioned, brow furrowing. 

“Thirty-something. Thirty-two? Yeah, that sounds right.”

“...You don’t know how old you are.”

“I don’t exactly count,” I tried to shrug, then regretted it as pain burst through my chest. If Hotch noticed, he didn’t say anything, looking at me funny as I looked back at him.

“What?” I asked, defensive. 

“Nothing. You just seemed more… juvenile.”

“Juvenile? Really?” I stared emptily at him in an attempt to restrain my childishness. “How old are you? Seventy?” I snorted. I wasn’t doing a great job of acting maturely.

“Thirty-something.”

I stopped. “Did you just make a joke? Oh my god, you just made a joke,” I grinned, and suddenly, Hotch beamed. 

“Oh my god, he’s _really_ smiling. We’re gonna have to do a psych eval after this,” I quipped, and Hotch just kept smiling, letting his head fall in shame.

“I was born on November 2nd, 1971,” Hotch said, like it pained him to admit his age.

“Okay, I’m too tired to do the math. How old does that make you?”

“Thirty-eight.”

“Wow! You’re an old man.” 

“I’m only six years older than you,” Hotch frowned.

“And a little bitch, as it turns out,” I snickered. Hotch just glowered at me (like a little bitch).

“I’m not a bitch.”

“Aaron Hotchner, you are a _bitch,_ ” I put my foot down.

Hotch didn’t get the chance to respond, because right then the metal door clanged open. 

I closed my eyes and laid still as possible, letting my limbs become limp and slowing my breathing. Heavy footfalls, like cement-filled boots, started to make their way down the stairs. Each step seemed to take longer and longer to descend. When they stopped, I held in my breath.

“Lookee here. One of you kicked the bucket.” The man’s voice was chilly and grating. “Did she die?” 

I could hear Hotch shuffle a little, a quiet and remorseful “yes” following. The man by the stairs sniffed, like he was disappointed, and I heard him turn back up the steps. I opened my eyes to watch him.

“Hmmm.” Back turned, the man put his hand down his pants and then pulled out a revolver. I knew what that meant. Hotch didn’t, and foggily looked between me and the unsub, desperately trying to determine what was going to happen next.

I closed my eyes.

The shots rang loud through the air, and I numbly registered them entering my left leg, unable to stop the moan that came out of me from the new wave of pain washing over.

“REAGAN-” Hotch’s voice, though loud, seemed dimmed in my mind from the shock and pain of having been shot not once, but twice more.

“So you lied,” the unsub turned to Hotch, stepping closer to him until his back was to me again. “I’m going to have to punish you for lying, agent.”

I knew that this would be the only chance we had.

I opened my eyes, dissociated from the pain in my leg, and stood up quietly. The man standing over Hotch had no idea what was going to hit him.

First, I swept my bad leg under his, forcing him to fall as I grabbed his gun arm. 

“ _Wha_ -” he started, but I wrenched the revolver from his grip and forced him down fully. It was only a few more small movements that put a dead man in front of me. I stared at the hole straight through the back of his skull, his brain matter joining the remains of his victims on the floor. He hadn’t even had the chance to see me behind him.

There were a few shots from upstairs.

“Looks like your team is in action, now,” I shakily told Hotch. He just stared at me.

Then, I remembered something.

“You wanted optimistic, Hotch?”

“Yes?” He looked up at me, confused and in a stupor.

“Then look on the bright side: you’ve earned me paid leave.” I grinned.

“What?”

“My department has a rule that we can only get shot four times a year,” I elaborated.

“I wonder why that is.” Hotchner raised his eyebrows at me.

“These are my fourth and fifth shots,” I wiggled my eyebrows, giggling a little. “Which means I get paid leave for the rest of the year.”

“But… it’s March. You’ve been shot-”

“-Twice in January, yeah. Good times.” I smiled at nothing for a bit. Even though I hated being on leave, I thought the whole thing was kind of funny, especially since I wouldn't get the chance to take the leave.

As my body belatedly responded to the now-passed events, everything began to slow. My limbs became heavier. The aching of the bullets embedded into my shoulder and leg began to disappear, and my brain began to fuzz with static again.

I maneuvered around the dead unsub, sticking a hand through his pockets and finding his flip phone. I grasped it, pulled it out, and threw it at Hotch, who barely caught it.

“Call your team and let them know you’re okay. I’m going to pass out now.”

“ _ReA_ -”

But it was too late, because I was out, not even feeling the impact of my skull into Hotch’s leg.


	2. Hotch

HOTCH

"Yes, I'm fine. We need medical down here. Two ambulances."

Hotch held the phone awkwardly, arm bent to release pressure from the wound in his shoulder.

"No. Jessica's dead."

"Then who-" the phone crackled.

"-The Pentagon agent we thought was dead. Reagan Levine." Hotch desperately wanted the phone call to end. He had an unconscious agent propped up on his thigh, her hair tangled in his other hand, which he was futilely using to try to stop the agent from bleeding out before medical could get into the basement.

"When can you get down here?"

He didn't hear what the person on the phone said next, because the metal door at the top of the basement slammed open, light footsteps pouring down the stairs.

"Hotch?"

"JJ?" Hotch's voice croaked.

"FOUND THEM!" JJ's voice broke through the basement as she started down.

"Oh my god," Prentiss spoke, right behind JJ who was taking the stairs two steps at a time.

"Is she okay?" JJ rushed up to the bloody agents, kneeling next to Reagan Levine. "Are you okay?" Her blonde hair whipped away as she spun to face the unit chief.

"I'll survive."

"Hotch, you've been shot. I thought you told medical that you were fine?" Prentiss leaned over Hotch, taking off her jacket and pressing it against his shoulder.

"I'm not priority. I can last a few hours without aid."

"Hotch, with all due respect, you're an idiot." JJ holstered her gun and took out a first aid kit that had been tucked in her jacket, opening it next to Reagan's body. When she saw the contents, she froze. "WHY are there _Cheetos_ in the first aid kit?" She turned accusingly to Prentiss, throwing the bag of Cheetos out and rummaging for something she could use.

"I thought that it would be funny!" Prentiss defended. "Medical usually gets here before us, and you're the only one who checks to make sure kits are up to standard!"

JJ didn't say anything, just glaring at Prentiss as she tore at some gauze.

"We're going to have to talk about that later," Hotch weakly told Prentiss, but Prentiss just pressed her jacket against him harder, effectively shutting him up.

"I am surprised and honestly impressed that Levine is still alive," JJ admitted, shoving as much gauze as she could against Levine's leg. "Jeez. How many times did she get shot?"

"Three," Hotch helpfully offered. Prentiss whistled at the number.

"Is Hotch okay?" A timid voice wavered down the steps from above.

"He will be, Reid, it's okay," Prentiss called up. "No," she told Hotch, who was moving to answer Reid. "You really shouldn't be talking."

"Hotch is fine!" Reid's voice called to whoever else was in the house.

"Thank god," Morgan's muffled voice carried down the stairs.

"Hey, guys? Medical is coming down," Reid informed, then stepped back up the stairs.

"Oh, good." JJ let out a breath. "There isn't enough gauze in this kit to help Levine. No thanks to space being taken up by Cheetos."

Footsteps once again flooded the basement as the medical team made their way down towards the four agents.


	3. Epilogue

EPILOGUE

Out of everyone Hotch was expecting in the hospital, he didn’t expect Brooklyn Noel.

When she'd arrived, files in hand, she had asked Garcia to leave, which made Hotch nervous. He hadn't heard anything about Agent Levine. Brooke was the only one who would know if Reagan was alright—if she'd survived or not.

"Agent," she'd stated solemnly, sitting next to his bed as he watched her carefully for an indication as to why she was there. "I have a few items to discuss with you, if that's alright?"

"Of course, ma'am. " Hotch steeled himself for the worst. It was bad enough that Jessica hadn't survived; on top of that, he and another agent had been shot, himself because of his failure to profile correctly. This case wouldn't look very good in the papers he would eventually have to write to Strauss about.

"Call me Brooke."

"Okay." Hotch watched as Brooke took out a pen and paper pad from her blazer.

"I have a few questions for you concerning my agent, Reagan Levine," Brook began. "These are going to be regarding her performance in this case. In your opinion, was it possible she could have evaded getting shot three times?"

"I wasn't present when she was first shot, but I don't believe she could have avoided the second and third."

Brooke wrote something down in her pad. "Alright. Do you believe that the last victim, Jessica Wagner's death could have been avoided by more effort on Levine's part?"

"I was not present during her death, but no, I do not. I was under the impression that Wagner received a fatal injury that Levine could not have prevented." Hotch felt uncomfortable. In his mind, he now thought himself close to how victims might feel when being questioned by the police or the BAU.

"Did Agent Levine ever disclose any information you suspect to be confidential?"

"I don't think so." Hotch racked his head to think, but he had no idea whether or not Reagan could have said anything he wouldn't be privy to otherwise.

"Thank you, Agent Hotchner. Please understand that those questions were out of formality, not out of distrust. I just have one more question for you." Brooke tucked the pen and paper back into her blazer, then leaned forward in her chair, looking at Hotch. "I don't know if you knew this, but my team has a rule; a limit of how many times they can get shot before their taken out of the field for the rest of the year. There are no exceptions to this rule," she began, "and the limit is four injuries."

"Reagan told me," Hotch nodded slightly.

"Right. Well, Reagan is the reason why we have that rule. Three years ago, she got shot seven times in one year," she chuckled, "the highest surviving rate of any member of the team. Ever."

"That is... impressive." Hotch didn't know what to say to that.

"I'm getting off topic. The rule is four, and Reagan got shot five times. Now, I don't know how well you got to know Reagan in the few hours you were down there together, but I believe you might be able to understand why we would rather she be in the field instead of on leave, yes?"

"There are a few reasons I could think of."

"Reagan herself hates being on leave. She always likes to be doing something. Do you see where I'm going here?" Brooke motioned with her hands. "I have to take her off the team for the rest of the year, but she needs something to do."

 _Oh no_ , Hotch thought.

"What was the question you were going to ask?" He tried, wanting to get down to it.

"I would like to request that you accept Agent Levine as a temporary transfer to the BAU." Brooke passed over the folder in her lap. "This file has her more public accomplishments and shows her qualifications for the job. If you would like evidence of her further accomplishments, you need only ask, but they will be edited to security level."

"I- Brooke, this is a lot," Hotch held the file awkwardly, but opened it anyway. There sat a labeled photo of Reagan. Hotch didn't even recognize her without the blood and guts.

"I understand if you read the file and say no, but I would request that you at least go over her profile."

Hotch went over all the things that had happened three days before in his head.

_Reagan didn't have the psychological traits appropriate to work at the BAU then. She definitely won't now._

"Isn't Reagan a bit of an unpredictable choice?" Hotch tried to choose his words as carefully as possible.

"Reckless? I would say so, but no more reckless than your Agent Morgan or Agent Prentiss. It is arguable that your own recklessness could compete with hers, based on how this last case went for you."

_Damn, she's right._

It wasn't that Hotch didn't want Reagan on the team. He just wasn't sure he needed another member, and he didn't like that a Pentagon unit chief was trying to convince him to take her on.

Instead of replying to Brooke immediately, he decided to read over Reagan's file.

 _She has experience in psychology,_ Hotch noted, _and field experience. A LOT of field experience._ Hotch stared at the number of missions Reagan had gone on for a few seconds.

_She's got more experience than I do._

Hotch closed the file, looking at Brooke. "Reagan has a higher clearance than I do. That would be hard for her with myself as her superior."

"Reagan is a great leader when she wants to be, but she'd rather be a follower in a team setting. You won't have any problems with her." Brooke's face was completely unreadable. Hotch tried to discern something out of it anyway, but came up short. He waited a few seconds, staring into her, before placing Reagan's file on the table next to the hospital bed.

"Alright. Have her report to me as soon as she's able."

Brooke nodded, visibly happy. "Fantastic." She started to get up, brushing out her pencil skirt as she stood. "I will inform her." She held out her hand. "It was a pleasure working with you on this case, Agent Hotchner."

"You as well, ma'am." Hotch took her hand and shook it firmly, then watched as Brooke turned her back to him and began to leave. "How is Reagan doing?" He stopped her, and she turned back around.

"She’ll be on crutches for a while, but she's lucky—her biggest issue was blood loss. She'll be able to return to the field shortly after yourself," Brooke informed him, then turned, walking straight out the door without another word.

Down the hospital corridor, another patient lay barely awake and largely undisturbed until a certain Brooklyn Noel visited.

I was laying uncomfortably, propped up against a few hardened hospital pillows, when Chief Noel entered.

"Brooke!" I smiled at her.

"How are you feeling, troublemaker?" Brooke smiled back, walking up to the foot of the bed.

"You know I hate hospitals," I scrunched my nose. "I want out already."

"Well, how is your shoulder and leg?"

"Fine. I'll survive."

Brooke smiled a little, patting the edge of the bed. "I've got news."

"...You're going to rescind the Reagan Rule?" The Reagan Rule was the four shots rule.

Brooke laughed. "Definitely not. I'm not letting you get shot again anytime soon. This is a compromise," she raised an eyebrow at me. "You can come back to the field this year after you get out, but not to the team just yet."

I didn't like where this was going. "I'm not getting kicked off the team, right?" I sat up a little, taking my back off of the hard pillows.

"No, you're just getting a temporary transfer. A much less dangerous temporary transfer that still involves field work."

"Brooke, you're killing me. I need more information than that."

"I know, I'm just drawing it out for you as punishment for breaking the rule," Brooke chuckled at me, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You're getting a transfer to the FBI."

"That's... _new,_ " I mused. "It's still too general. What unit?"

"The BAU." Brooke smiled at me as my world stopped.

"Holy- the BAU? _THE_ BAU?" I didn't move. There was no way.

"Effective immediately, once you get the go-ahead from a doctor, you're going to be working with the BAU under Agent Hotchner."

"FUCK YES!" I fell dramatically backwards into the pillows, smiling widely.

"Please be professional about this; I know you've been wanting a fun assignment like this for a while, so I personally asked you to be put on. Don't embarrass me."

"I'll do my best, but no promises."

"You gremlin." Brooke looked down at me, exasperated, but with some mirth in her eyes. "Well, I need to get back to the team and check on your colleagues. I wish you luck with the reassignment." She patted my bed once more for good measurement, then got up, walking to the door.

"So Hotch made it out okay?"

"Yes, he did. He's much better off than you are."

"Of course he is," I laughed to myself, grinning up at the ceiling. Brooke just shook her head, swiveling around and striding out the door.

I took a moment to take everything in.

Hotch and I both made it out. I didn't die. I wasn't suspended. I got to stay in the field. I was getting temporarily reassigned to the BAU.

_This is going to be awesome._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would absolutely love feedback, so feel free to share your thoughts in the comments! I love criticism and will keep it in mind for future works.


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